Surely, you must know
by To Thy High Requiem
Summary: John must confront Sherlock about a darker part of his past, but Sherlock doesn't know how to respond. Perhaps John could teach him. No slash, friendship only. Two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: The standard disclaimer, I do not own Sherlock, John, or any other character from BBC's Sherlock. **_  
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_"Surely, you must know, Sherlock."_

_"Know what, Mycroft?"_

_"This – state – you've allowed yourself to muddle into. This condition. It can't last."_

_Sherlock was staring ahead at the wall in front of him, but he turned at that comment to stare at his brother's face, his own lips pressed tightly together. He would not dignify that with an answer._

_"I'll be keeping an eye on you, Sherlock." With that comment, Mycroft Holmes swept out of the door, umbrella swinging at his side._

That was a different time, a time before John. Mycroft thought about the days since the good doctor has graced Sherlock's life with his presence. Danger nights came less and less often, but in the early days, it was still better to err on the side of caution. He recalled one of those nights.

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"Mycroft". John held the phone to his ear as he sat down in front of the kitchen table.

Mycroft answered on the first ring. "John. What's wrong with Sherlock this time?"

A beat. Then, "He's gone missing."

"I'll be right there."

Mycroft was as good as his word. Within twenty minutes the older man was sitting in the living room at 221B, with a frown firmly etched onto his face. "Tell me what's happened, John."

John was feeling a little bit silly, surely he was only over-reacting. But something wasn't sitting right with John, something was off, and he wasn't sure what. With Sherlock, it was hard to tell what was normal and what was not. He knew that Sherlock had said that he would go for days without speaking. Apparently he also would go for days without eating too, but that wasn't really hard to deal with compared to…well, he wasn't sure what.

"Sherlock's been in some sort of a mood for the past few days. I'd say it's been more like two weeks. We haven't had any cases, and whereas at times he'd be pacing up and down pouncing like a wild cat at a chance to smoke or deduce the life out of anyone he could meet, this time he was listless. Totally listless." John paused as he recalled the scene he saw every morning for the past fourteen days. He'd come down early from his room only to find Sherlock flopped on the couch, his violin lying lazily against his side. He called his name, but no response. Some mornings he'd get a grunt. By afternoon, Sherlock would have moved into his bedroom, the wailing of the violin drifting through the cracks of the door. At night, Sherlock was back in the living room, his mood more foul than ever.

"I've tried to distract him – tried to drag him shopping, or even lure him with an idea of some new experiment, God help me."

Mycroft smirked at that last comment.

"This evening when I came back from the clinic, Sherlock wasn't where he normally parks himself. I thought that maybe he'd actually gotten some new case and was finally up and about – until I heard a loud twang and an angry snarl coming from his bedroom. It was his violin."

Mycroft's face actually blanched at that. If Sherlock actually broke his violin…

"I think one of the strings broke. I heard a crash, and before I knew it, Sherlock was flying out of his room and was rushing past me before I could stop him. He was gone." John looked distraught for a moment and he looked down at his hands.

"Mycroft, my gun is missing."

John said that last part as a helpless plea, and he looked up.

Mycroft gave John one good look before he took action. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, John. I'll have the CCTV cameras checked for my brother's whereabouts." He stopped for a pause. "Dr. Watson, I'm not sure how informed you are of my brother's past…experiences." Clearly Mycroft was alluding to Sherlock's darker history, his use of John's title meant he was all business.

John looked at him half expectantly. "I assume – you're going to be filling me in on a little of that now?"

"Sherlock has always been secretly proud of the fact that our maternal grandmother was an artist. He's always said that art in the blood can take on the strangest forms. His mind runs in ways that eludes even me." Mycroft let himself have a small smile at that. "While I may surpass him in the abilities of deduction – his artistic streak runs wild in ways I cannot always contain. He can become prey to the blackest of depressions, for example."

The doctor nodded, his own suspicions solidifying in his mind. Now his fears really started to grow, churning a hole in his stomach.

"Doesn't that mean that we should be out looking for him, then? Is there something we can do?"

"I'm afraid I've tried everything, Doctor Watson. Sherlock escapes me. Though, it has been a long time since he last succumbed to himself." Mycroft's eyes took on an almost wistful expression and then, as if snapping himself out of his reverie, he took a sigh, smiled, and stood up to leave.

Later, John kept his vigil in the kitchen, not daring to go anywhere lest he should receive urgent news of his flatmate. He thumbed through the manila folder in front of him, a strange collection of pictures and writings and reports neatly filed within. Mycroft had deemed that John should be…briefed…about Sherlock's past a bit more comprehensively. There were childhood drawings, a few diary entries that were written for assignments for school or the doctor, medical reports, all dating back to when Sherlock was very young.

One poem stood out to John.

_Some time ago I asked you  
(I under an old oak tree, you by the river side),  
"If I stay a moment longer  
and count the evening stars with you,  
will imagination overcome  
those dark and endless nights?"  
But the answer was swallowed by the wind  
and the plight of the rapids breaking free._

The poem itself was slightly surprising. John would never think that Sherlock was into poetry. It looked normal – filled with the kinds of sentiment that poetry is usually made for. Of course, this was exactly what made it _not_ normal at all. A more in depth review of the reports written by the counselor gave an explanation of sorts.

_"Sherlock has an over-active mind. He gets overloaded with words in his head, and it is difficult for him to express himself sometimes. Puzzles and rules help him to put a focus on his words and that's why I've assigned him to write a little poem whenever he finds it difficult to speak."_

The piece, it had no title, was quite vague. John could not tell the mood of the author in it. What was alarming, however, were the notes. Little scribbles were written on the margins and in the body of the poem itself with a red pen in Mycroft's writing. Just like Mycroft to bypass doctor-patient confidentiality without even batting his eyes. John looked more carefully.

The first letter of the first line, the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, etc. were all circled. John took in a sharp breath when he saw the pattern – s,u,I,c,i….'suicidal'.

John glanced at the other reports; the date of the poem preceded a hospital report just by two days. John sighed and rubbed his hand across his face, then glanced at the clock. It's been two hours since Mycroft had left him here.

Suddenly a click could be heard, and footsteps, slow and steady, came up the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry people, for the really late update. I was caught up with other things and the wireless was also down for a while. In trying to get it all out before I forget all about it, I kind of rushed this a bit. Nevertheless, it's done, for now.**

**I know it has to do with angst, but I didn't want to make the characters too OOC, so this chapter will try to maintain a grasp to the character's personalities a bit more.**

**Thanks for reading - and please, leave a review! Thank you!**

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"Sherlock?"

Sherlock stepped onto the last step lightly, his expression neutral. The only thing that showed anything out of the ordinary was the fact that he was soaked through to his skin.

"Sherlock! You're dripping wet! Where have you been?"

For a moment it was as if Sherlock didn't know what to do. Should he go towards John, in the kitchen? Stroll into the living room as if nothing was the matter? Or slam his door behind him as he entered his bedroom? Instead, he did the one thing John Watson did not expect him to do.

He sank to floor, his body sliding down the door frame as he went.

"Sher-!" John didn't have time to even finish calling out his friend's name, he lunged forward to catch the body as he fell. "Sherlock." He whispered when they were finally on the ground.

Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep shuddering breath, then looked up, a small smile flashing across his features before it disappeared. John has seen those smiles before, they were usually used to pacify someone that Sherlock is interrogating, or to appease Lestrade when he had to be polite. Those smiles never reached the eyes, and neither did that one.

"John. My legs are malfunctioning."

John almost smiled at that. "Sherlock. You need to get off the floor."

John eventually helped Sherlock up, took off his heavy soaked Belstaff coat, and got Sherlock to change into dry pajamas and his favourite blue silk robe. While he was doing that, John busied himself with making a cuppa for the both of them. He had texted Mycroft to let him know that Sherlock was safely back in Baker Street.

When Sherlock came out of his room again, the steaming cup of tea was waiting for him at the coffee table by the couch. John didn't say anything, but his eyes assessed every movement that Sherlock made over the rim of his own coffee cup as he took small sips. Sherlock looked none the worse for wear, except for the fact that he was a shade paler than normal.

"John. Stop staring."

John looked away momentarily, but then turned his gaze back to Sherlock with an outright glare. As quick as the anger had come, it left him again, and his features softened. He was angry at Sherlock for making all of them worry for him, but at the same time, he could not really blame him for it. The man looked miserable enough as it was already.

"Sherlock. Running away never helped you before. Why don't…why don't you tell me what's bothering you?"

Sherlock's eyes seemed to be reading John as he said those words. He noted the folder in the kitchen, the tell-tale signs of Mycroft's visit, and knew that John was referring to more than just his disappearance for the night.

"I'm…**not** an **un**happy man, John."

The doctor only looked back at him, a thoroughly confused and worried expression on this face. Sherlock Holmes just used a double negative.

Sherlock lowered his head, scratched his neck, then looked back at John.

"It's not…it's not that I am…_sad_…it's not even that I am…_bored_. John! It goes beyond being bored. It's, it's like someone put a silencer on the world. Or…or maybe it's the opposite. There's too many facts. Too much information, but no meaning. There's no sense to it all, no purpose. Oh…who am I kidding, I have no idea what I'm saying." His eyes widened at that, as if he was surprised at his own confession.

John had gotten out of his chair as Sherlock was speaking and was now crouched in front of his friend, a hand resting on Sherlock's knee.

"Sherlock. No one knows what goes on in that funny little brain of yours." John smiled a little when Sherlock looked up at the word 'little'. "But let me tell you this. No matter what you're feeling, you can trust me. Just…don't run away from it. Promise?"

Sherlock looked him in the eyes for a minute before he nodded minutely.

"And…Sherlock." John cleared his throat. The next part was a bit difficult. "Do you…" his voice broke a little as he wavered on the brink of the question. Normally when he had to ask this question he always did it firmly but gently, with all seriousness and no hesitation. But with Sherlock…

"Are you contemplating hurting yourself?"

Sherlock felt his heart jump a little at that, but he had no idea why. He was fascinated with John's question, but he offered no reply.

"Sherlock. You have to answer me."

"No." John briefly wondered whether that was no - he wasn't contemplating it, or no – he doesn't have to answer him.

"Blowing up cans of beer while being in the room would constitute as harming yourself."

"That's not fair, John."

"Ok, ok. But Sherlock, I'm serious with this one. Have you seen my gun?" This last question was asked very quietly. John was almost afraid of the answer.

Sherlock lifted an arm and produced a gun from out of his coat pocket, handing it to John with the safety on. When he took a hold of the weapon, John checked to see if it was loaded. All the bullets were accounted for, with none missing.

"What were you doing with it?"

"The usual, John."

"And what…I'm almost afraid to ask…do you mean by that?"

Sherlock only glanced at him in reply, but eventually he sighed. "It was just precaution to carry it. At any rate, John, I won't be using it on myself, if that's what you're afraid of." John suddenly had an idea of where Sherlock might have gone.

"There's other ways, Sherlock. You've been clean for as long as I've known you. Don't…don't…" John had no other words. Somehow the idea of Sherlock and drugs was still very much hypothetical in his mind.

"My mind needs stimulus!" Sherlock growled suddenly. He propped himself up a little, tucking his legs underneath him as he crouched on the couch again, coiled as if he's ready to spring.

John was at a loss for words. He couldn't very well tell Sherlock Holmes to go and do crossword puzzles, or go for a jog, or watch the telly for fun. He _could_ but was hesitant to tell Sherlock to conduct more experiments…and there were no cases at the moment. He didn't think that he was capable of going out and committing a murder case complex enough to capture Sherlock's mind even if he tried. Sherlock played the violin, but then John remembered the incident earlier involving the strings.

Sherlock spoke up, unexpectedly, "That poem. You've read it."

John remembered with a chill the notes that were associated with that poem from his friend's childhood. "Yeah….yeah I did."

"I guess that's where all this mollycoddling is coming from. Look John, that poem, I wrote it just to…satisfy Mycroft."

"You mean to scare him pantless."

Sherlock smirked. "I knew he'd be reading it. I knew he'd be able to make out the message no one else can."

John wondered whether Sherlock saw how he was making his case look more like self-denial than anything else. It certainly seemed more like a cry of help to the only person who could sense it than a message meant to get back at your brother for invading your privacy.

"What about the hospital entry?" John asked in a quiet voice.

"That was unfortunate timing. It was for an experiment. I didn't mean to poison myself."

John didn't know whether to doubt that or to believe Sherlock. The man was mad enough that half the time, John was pretty sure that he was subconsciously hell bent on getting himself killed with his harebrained experiments anyways. John thought it best to let it drop for now though. Sherlock was not like other people. His depression was as concrete as his almost manic energy, but he would be offended to say that they were from any sort of thing other than mechanical. There was simply no room for being sentimental. Sharing _feelings_ wouldn't help. He had to do _something_.

"Perhaps – you could help me do some things around the place."

Sherlock looked at him with an exasperated look. "Dull."

"Then help me with my blog – write something. Oh…how about…the advice that Ella gave me. Why don't you…why don't you write down some of the notes from your old cases on my blog? The readers will go wild."

Sherlock seemed to contemplate that for a moment. It has been a while since he attempted a monogram, ever since the tobacco ash thing fell through. Old case files started opening in his mind and he recalled some of them with a near-chuckle.

"Tedious." Sherlock said, finally. But later that evening, John found Sherlock curled on the couch with his laptop, tapping away furiously. Occasionally John would take a peek across his shoulders to see how the accounts were coming along.

By the next morning, three new entries were made on John's blog, "The Adventure of the Blue Turtle", "The Inflatable Thermos", and "The Sixteen Paper Buttons". Comments started flooding in and it wasn't long after that when a client called. John thanked God silently when it happened and as he was grabbing his coat to go after a bounding Sherlock, he was grateful that the crisis was finally averted – for now. There would be more days though, days where those who knew him would code as danger nights, and watchful eyes would keep him safe.

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**Thanks guys. Sorry about the rushed ending as I've mentioned. Maybe later I'll come back to take a second look and revise...**

**But for now, if you have any comments, please leave a review. Thank you kindly!**


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